Feigning
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: Bitter and drunk, museum security guard Arthur Kirkland is the victim in an attempted art theft. Photographer Gilbert Beilschmidt is put on the case and he is determined to find out who the thief is, despite that, unknown to him, he might just lose a valuable person in the process. [Human AU, PruCan]


**Title: **Feigning  
**Genre: **Crime/drama  
**Rating: **T  
**Summary: **Bitter and drunk, museum security guard Arthur Kirkland is the victim in an attempted art theft. Photographer Gilbert Beilschmidt is put on the case and he is determined to find out who the thief is, despite that, unknown to him, he might just lose a valuable person in the process. [Human AU, PruCan]  
**Characters/Pairings: **Prussia, Canada, America, England, France, Spain, Scotland, Germany, Italy, Japan, appearances by Denmark, Norway, Sealand, Roman Empire (Yay~ \^.^/) and pretty much everyone else – **However, the only definite pairing I've figured out for this story is Prussia/Canada. That means that the characters listed above are open to pairing suggestions. If _you_ would like to see a pairing in this story, either tell me in a review or send me a PM and I'll see if I can work it into the story. Who knows, it might give me some inspiration... **

**For those who don't know the human names (those enclosed in parentheses are unofficial and are either widely accepted by fans or are of my own creation)...  
England – **Arthur Kirkland  
**Scotland –** (Alistair Kirkland)  
**Wales –** (James Kirkland)  
**Northern Ireland –** (Patrick Kirkland)  
**Republic of Ireland –** (Christopher Kirkland)  
**Sealand – **Peter Kirkland  
**Prussia –** Gilbert Beilschmidt  
**Canada –** Matthew Williams  
**Japan –** Kiku Honda  
**Spain –** Antonio Fernández Carriedo  
**Roman Empire –** (Romulus Vargas)  
**France –** Francis Bonnefoy  
**Denmark –** (Mathias Køhler)  
**Belgium –** (Belle)

These are only the characters mentioned in this chapter. The majority of these characters will be appearing in later chapters, but I will not be repeating their human names in my notes. I'll only be mentioning new characters appearing in a chapter that haven't appeared (or been mentioned) in the story yet.

* * *

**Feigning**

**...o...**

**Chapter One**

**...o...**

* * *

Bitter and drunk, museum security guard Arthur Kirkland stumbled through the front doors of the St. Hetalia Museum of Art with a new tattoo donning his arm: A two symbol Kanji that meant God knows what situated just below his right shoulder. He couldn't remember what he had asked the tattoo artist to write, so perhaps he would have to ask Kiku about it sometime after his roommate returned from Japan.

Earlier in the night, in a relatively little known bar co-owned by one Mathias Køhler, his dearest enemy and worst friend Francis Bonnefoy had somehow managed to convince him (after a fair bit of alcohol, mind you) to make the very unwise decision to go out and get a tattoo in his drunken state. Driven by the frustration of nearly losing his job the week before, whiskey and the fact that there was no way in hell he was going to refuse a challenge from _Francis_, Arthur agreed.

And, his enabled mind had reminded him as he had downed another shot of whiskey, he had always thought about adopting a tattoo during his more rebellious years. This was simply the perfect opportunity.

_And it would piss Alistair off when he found out, _another more bitter part of his mind had piped up.

Decision made, he had found the nearest tattoo parlour he could with Francis trailing behind him, looking decidedly smug and definitely more sober. He had ignored the young tattoo artist's advice as he demanded service and snapped at him to "just get on with it!" when he thought the lad was still looking unsure. The artist had still looked uncertain even as he had led Arthur to the chair, but the promise of a very generous tip from Francis had steeled his resolve.

And so, at the age of thirty-one, Arthur had acquired his first body decoration, leaving the parlour with a victorious smirk donning his face. Francis had matched his expression with equal enthusiasm, though for a very different reason.

When Arthur had arrived at the museum at four in the morning, two hours late for the shift but not sober enough to really give a rat's ass about it, one of the other security guards working the shift before his had greeted him by name. Antonio Fernández Carriedo sat in the lobby of the museum, backpack beside him, leafing through a museum brochure, tomato slice caught between his lips. He looked up as Arthur shut the door behind him and even without much light, Arthur could tell his fellow guard was very much _not _amused.

"Ah, Eyebrows," he greeted as he stood up, closing his brochure and putting it on the bench seat beside him. Arthur glared viciously at the name (he swore his eyebrows weren't his dominating feature) while Antonio shouldered his backpack and started towards the entrance, his sun-kissed, short, wavy hair and green eyes illuminated by the light of the moon. "You're late."

"Antonio," Arthur said dryly. "How kind of you to wait for me." Thankfully, the process of getting his tattoo had managed to sober him up quite a bit and his words were far less slurred than they were when he originally left the bar.

Antonio leaned forward, eyes narrowed in thought as he gave Arthur a once over. His frown deepened. "You're drunk," he accused.

"Observant," he sneered. "What's it to you?"

Arthur didn't like Antonio. He didn't trust him. The Spanish man had a near constant smile on his face and was much too kind for his own good. He tried too hard to make friends with everyone he met, though it seemed that Arthur was the one exception to that quality, as during his time at the museum, Arthur had not once had a kind word or anything friendlier than a frown directed his way from his fellow security guard – which, in reality, didn't at all bother him, as the feeling of dislike was largely mutual, but even the bloody frog Francis and the perpetually angry Italian that occasionally visited with his brain dead brother got a brighter-than-the-Mediterranean-sun-itself smile each time they dropped by.

He had a feeling Antonio was hiding something. What the Spaniard was hiding, he didn't have a clue, but there was something odd about him that he couldn't exactly put his finger on. He wasn't sure whether it was because of the crime dramas and movies he frequently watched had managed to poison whatever thoughts he had about people such as Antonio, but whatever the reason was, there was no doubt in his mind that the man was not all who he claimed to be.

Antonio was not just a security guard working a steady job that grew and sold tomatoes as a side hobby, Arthur was convinced, no matter how people tried to tell him otherwise.

But tonight, he didn't have the time, energy nor patience to prove his suspicions.

Instead, Arthur only acknowledged Antonio's next words with a scowl, letting his response go ignored. He would have preferred to have the last word in their short conversation, but resisted the urge to do so. The last time he had pushed a conversation with Antonio, they had both ended up on the floor with bloody noses and bruises littering their bodies.

Luckily, the head of security had a soft spot for the Spaniard and as much as Arthur hated being bailed out by Antonio, he had to give him a little gratitude for managing to sweet talk the head of security into preserving both their jobs.

Their consequences had been halfhearted at best: Pay for the damage they had caused out of their own paychecks, face a four hour long lecture about museum safety and respecting coworkers and have their (very, very well suited – for Arthur's part, at least) shifts changed around as to guarantee they would never work the same shift.

Because of that, he supposed he also owed Antonio thanks. Without the museum, he would be left jobless and unable to pay his share of the apartment he and Kiku shared. His conscience nagged at him each time the incident passed through his mind and even his second oldest brother, James – the only one of the five that he was still on speaking terms with – encouraged him each time they met up. He was sure the rotten, tomato-eating bastard knew it, too, if the subtle smirks directed his way each time it was brought up was anything to go by.

So Arthur kept his eyes directed on the tiled floor and his mouth glued shut, difficult though it was. He could feel Antonio's eyes on his back as he headed towards the security office, already beginning to slide his spring jacket off his shoulders. He slammed the door behind him, listening to the resounding echo as it muffled the sound of the Spaniard's chuckles. He leaned against the door until the infuriating sound disappeared and the front doors snapped closed, leaving the foyer of the museum eerily silent.

From there, Arthur's routine was clockwork – well, as much as it could be in the state he was in. He managed to shed the rest of his casual clothes without ending up sprawled out on the ground, grabbing his security uniform and putting it on as fast as he could, frustrated fingers fumbling with the buttons. One minute fiddling with the damned things later, he gave up and left his vest open with only two buttons done.

By the time he opened the door once again, any signs that Antonio had been there in the first place were long gone. The brochure the Spaniard had been reading had been moved back to the pile provided, perfectly neat, as if hadn't been disturbed at all, bench seat vacated, front doors locked – or at least he assumed. He didn't have time to check, not tonight. He was already late enough and if any of the other security guards came wandering around to his wing, they would discover his absence. He was walking on thin ropes already and Antonio was, above all the things Arthur could complain about, responsible.

Arthur started towards his wing of the museum, doing quite the fantastic job of avoiding the other security guards patrolling – and, by extension, their inevitable questions – if he could say so himself.

His partner for his wing had been fired a few weeks before he had been switched – which was a shame, really, because Arthur rather liked the lad – and they had yet to find someone else that had the proper qualifications (and could stand to work with him for a lengthy period of time). They might have considered putting Antonio on the job if not for their squabble the week before.

Pity that they didn't – it would have been far easier to lower his pride enough to give the Spaniard even the briefest of thanks if they had any hours together.

Arthur sighed and, feeling a bit more sober, began his rounds.

* * *

Arriving in the small city of St. Hetalia at eight years old with his parents and (at the time) four brothers, Arthur hadn't known what to expect. His parents had told him very little about the city and even as the plane had landed in the city's small airport, he hardly knew anything about it. All he did know was that it was going to be very, very different from his home in the bustling city of London and that his parents were incredibly excited about moving to the much smaller, all around more secluded area of St. Hetalia.

"_It's a surprise," _his mother would always tell him when he asked her, holding a finger to her lips. _"You'll love it. I promise."_

St. Hetalia itself ran mostly on agriculture and tourism for the birthplace of the Russian man who massacred ninety-six people just a few towns over. However, over the years, it became more and more industrial and the later addition of the museum helped draw attention away from the fact that it was the hometown of a serial killer and instead drew in art enthusiasts, attracted by the very large and very expensive donation of Roman and Renaissance period art that the founder of the museum, Romulus Vargas, gave from his private collection when the museum was established.

At the time of Arthur's arrival, there had been just over seven thousand people in the city – which in Arthur's mind had hardly qualified as a city; it was nothing compared to London's millions of people – and the sun shone nearly every day in a cloudless sky. The air smelt like pine trees, people smiled and greeted each other by name when passing on the street and your business was everyone's business.

His parents had just fallen in love with the place. Even his four older brothers had openly welcomed a change of pace from the overwhelming streets and grey skies over London – they were much more open minded about change.

And Arthur, meanwhile, absolutely hated it, much to the vexation of his parents.

Later in his life, Arthur would reflect that it was probably the hatred of St. Hetalia he had felt that led him on his path to delinquency that had lasted from the time he was fifteen to the day he turned nineteen. And consequently, it had also led to the hatred his brothers felt against him – with the exception of Peter, his youngest brother, who had drawn his hatred of Arthur from his other brothers and the stories he had heard from them.

When people asked about his teenage years and Arthur was in the rare mood to share things about himself, such as when he was piss drunk, he found people tended to think the worst: A close family member or friend had died and he was taking revenge on the world for their death, or he had a bad home life, or his parents were divorced, or he wanted to "fit in", or his friends were a bad influence on him...

None of which were true, of course. He was a child of good breeding and as far as he knew, his parents had never even thought of divorcing. He had few friends during his school years and none of them had done anything notable enough that he would want to follow in their footsteps.

In fact, if anyone in their family was going to turn out to be a bad seed, Arthur would have thought it would be one of his brothers – Alistair in particular. Before finding his (and later Peter's) father, his mother had gone through three different men of three different nationalities, all of whom treated her in different ways, though they had one thing in common: They all abandoned her in the end.

Alistair, the oldest of the bunch, had seen the most of his mother's failed relationships – from the emotional, mental and later physical abuse from the twins' father and back again. He was practically the poster child for the reasons of child delinquency.

But it hadn't turned out that way. It was him, the child, who all in all, had nothing to really complain about, that chose the wrong path.

He supposed he also had to give his brother credit, too, where credit was due. Alistair wasn't the greatest older brother ever, but he had tried with all his younger brothers to be a good influence on them – for the most part. And Arthur had always been Alistair's favourite; Alistair had made no attempt to hide it and Arthur had always known it.

His brother had been there to patch up his knee when his parents weren't, to defend him when he and his other brothers fought, to cheer him on the first time he ever beat up Francis, to give him his first swig of whiskey and to simply laugh and clap him on the back the first time he had ever got thrown in jail.

"_Good job, kid," _he had said as he escorted Arthur out of the station, laughing. _"Maw's goin' to kick yer ass black an' blue fer worrin' 'er like this." _

If he thought about it, Arthur knew that there wasn't exactly an incident that threw his and Alistair's relationship to hell. Instead, it was mostly little things that, in the end, equated to more than his brother could handle. He had fought with Alistair and his other brothers in those four years more than he had ever fought with all of them combined. He had stole from and betrayed his family. He had made his mother cry, coming home with injuries every second day – and that was one of the things he hated himself most for, even during those years, because his mother didn't deserve to suffer any more – and had fled back to England when he finally had enough money.

During his time in England, short though it was, he had managed to fall in love with the most delightful woman he had ever met and had even bought a ring to propose to her with, only to have his father find him before he could and drag him back to St. Hetalia.

He hadn't seen nor heard from Belle since.

Nowadays, only James could stand to speak with him, Arthur thought as he walked up and down his wing. He never had the chance to coddle and spoil the little brother he had always wanted, not before Peter's view of him had been poisoned by a past he hadn't had any involvement in. He hadn't seen much of Patrick, Christopher or Alistair since the last family dinner he had attended – four years earlier, where it had been made very clear that he was not at all welcomed by his brothers.

After that, he had made a point to only visit his parents when all four of his brothers were nowhere around.

James kept him updated, though. He knew his brothers were still a tightly knit group, even with his absence, so when he heard news that the small brewery Alistair, Christopher and Patrick had started up was doing well, he silently congratulated them from the background. Always from the background. And Alistair had even found a new little brother figure to indulge, James had told him the last time they met for tea.

He denied that his teeth grit at the thought of being replaced.

God, he hated working the night shift. Walking his wing without anybody to talk to or observe always made him think about the things he would rather forget. Before his shifts were switched around, he was lucky enough to have only one night in the week to work as well as someone to chat with if the fancy struck him. Now, he was alone wandering around an almost completely empty museum, left with only his thoughts for company.

And to make things worse, it was becoming difficult to keep his eyes open. Normally, he would have slept a few hours beforehand, as Kiku always insisted, but his roommate was in Japan at the moment making a family visit and not in St. Hetalia to make Arthur stick to his routine. Francis played a part in this too, he supposed, what with cajoling him out of the apartment for a night of drinks.

Luckily, his roommate would return in only two days and politely force Arthur back into habit and Arthur himself would simply punch Francis in the face the next time he showed up at his door.

That would make him feel better.

It always did.

It helped him keep his eyes open, at least, imaging how exactly his next encounter with Francis would go. He still had insults he had thought of but hadn't yet used from the last time he had thought of Francis at length. Earlier in the night, he had hardly been able to get a word in with the bloody frog chatting his ear off, raving about how his adorable Mathieu was finally coming back from his month long trip to Canada. He had heard similar things from Gilbert, a drinking buddy of his, a few days prior–

Something moved.

Arthur was immediately pulled out of his wandering thoughts and back into the present. Perhaps one of the other security guards had decided to come check on him? Though they had no reason to do so... But maybe he had imagined it? Or it could have even been one of his old faeries playing a trick on him. A good theory considering his personal experiences with faeries, but he hadn't heard the twinkling of bells nor had he seen the slightest shifting of air that normally accompanied faeries.

So what had moved?

He heard absolutely nothing for the next two minutes. Only the sounds of his own breathing and his heart pounding rapidly in his chest filled his ears. He swore he could hear his own blood running in his veins.

Then he heard it again.

A tap.

A dull, repetitive beat that paused as it got closer to him.

Footsteps.

He could feel the eyes on him before he could see them. He turned around slowly, shining his flashlight all around him. He couldn't see another person, but he knew there was another presence nonetheless. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He could feel the eyes following his every movement like a hawk, like a predator honing in on its prey before making the preemptive strike.

"Who's there?" he called, just to fill the silence.

There was no answer, as he predicted.

Not wanting, or needing, for that matter, to handle this alone, Arthur turned once again and unclasped his radio from his belt. He managed to only say half a word before he felt a very hard something hit him upside the head, knocking him to the ground. He heard his flashlight crack, his only source of light falling out of his hand and rolling across the floor to rest against a wall. Questions rose from his radio, but silence took over once again as he heard a foot slam and his radio shatter under the force.

The bastard had broken his radio.

_Goddammit._

A sigh rang out in the silence, along with a few muttered words Arthur couldn't understand. Arthur willed his body to stay completely still, trying to stop his pounding heart, scantly even breathing, as he heard whoever this person was come to stand beside him.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then he could hear the sound of fabric shifting and the feeling of a single finger clothed in cool leather touch his neck. He couldn't stop himself from tensing, despite his efforts. The hand recoiled immediately.

"Thought you could fool me?" a voice as soft as a whisper asked him, vaguely accented and deceptively kind.

Arthur didn't answer. His eyes, though hidden from view, were being closed in by the darkness creeping in on either side. His head ached from the force of the blow, but he felt like he could have been on Cloud Nine with how light-headed and utterly detached he felt. Even the words of his attacker sounded far away.

And the last thing Arthur Kirkland heard before blacking out was the sound of slight laughter, the yelling of his name and the two pairs of footsteps quickly approaching him.

* * *

**A/N **;; I was knocked out once – by a metal baseball bat. The second last paragraph is basically how I felt. I would have searched online for other people's experiences, but at the time of writing this chapter, I was on a train in the middle of nowhere with no internet! So I winged it and based it off my own experiences. It works, yes?

Alright, so I tried a totally new style with this story. I've never attempted it before, but I've seen it done very well. You guys should **_review _**and tell me if I did well or not. I can't decide whether I put too much information in this chapter or not.

I see Arthur as the type of person to plan their insults ahead of time.

I was also thinking about not calling my fictional city St. Hetalia (the original name for it was Fiddler's Bluff, actually) – because as much as I love Hetalia, it isn't the greatest name for a town. Saint Useless Italy, huh? Okay then...


End file.
